


Don’t Loose Your Head in a Dungeon

by ColdCoffins



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Bloodborne - Freeform, Gen, M/M, On going AU, and it’s abit heavy for a first lol, babys first nsfw writing, bloodborne au, djura and gas get stuck together and spice ensues, hopefully this goes ok, spice is coming, spice meaning monster spice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 11:49:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15364002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdCoffins/pseuds/ColdCoffins
Summary: Gascoigne doesn’t plan on Djura accompanying him in Loran’s DungeonHe doesn’t plan on a lot of things that happen during his time there with the powderkeg.





	Don’t Loose Your Head in a Dungeon

**Author's Note:**

> Baby’s first nsfw writing and I’m nervous but the first chapter is just a lead up so — we go

It was called Loran.

Loran, once a fruitful, sprawling labyrinth that lay beneath the city of Yharnam, was swallowed by the earth. Before the blood made its way through Loran, and Loran fell to the beastly plague. This miraculous healing blood would then pass to the Pthumerian people, only for the scourge and the ground to bury their city the same, leaving behind their winding ruins.

What would Yharnam now leave behind? Gascoigne thought as he made his way down a clay colored hall of cobbled stone. Sand blew in gritty clouds through the tight passage, coming in from the canyon wall exits. The priest raised the holy scarf wrapped around his shoulders to cover his mouth and nose. He would rather spare the dust from his breath rather than spare the once pure white embroidered shawl a bit less dirt.

The priest moved down the corridor, his steps lost in the gusting wind. He passed small hovels in the walls where scraggly, mangy beasts hid. Their legs curled to their chests, heads bowed. If the cavity was large enough, sometimes two could be found huddled together. There was something human in the sight, and Father Gascoigne would not have to travel far in the damp corners of Yharnam to find a similar scene.

But remains of humanity was not why the Church hunter passed them by. A beast didn’t have any humanity. A beast was a dumb, slathering, bloodthirsty monster that needed to be destroyed. It was a hunter’s duty to keep the scourge damage minimal. Cleanse the streets. Only Loran was a city beyond saving. It was skeletal remains being picked clean by civilizations after its time.

If the beasts had no quarrel with him, Gascoigne had no quarrel with the beasts. It would save his axe some sharpening and repair not having to hack through the bones of the now monstrous populace.

Bolts of blue lighting sparked overhead, branching from roots that spread their gnarled fingers from the ceiling and walls. The atmosphere even now remained electrified and alive.  
It was a common folktale around the country that being struck by lightning could raise the dead.

From Loran perhaps, Gascoigne thought again. Though the hunter could not see the sparks or the huddled beasts, his other senses did not fail him. The snaps of whip-like lightning cracked, and the stale breath of beasts was a thick fog around him.

Gascoigne did recall the hunter workshop scholar, Irreverent Izzy, who once brought a rat’s heart back to rhythm with the blue sparks.

Old magic. Gascoigne frowned. Any sort of old magic was best left to the church. Best left to the inclusive group of the choir, who passed the knowledge of arcane among each other as if a sacred flame. Despite such powers offered by his superiors, Gascoigne refused any form of promotion. He was but a humble church hunter, cleansing the city streets. Besides, the gaudy status of choir member suited him little as their white puffed pantaloons.

Magic was best left out of the hands of mortals. Leave it to the will of the Gods, Gascoigne would say.

Old magic could wait. What concerned Gascoigne most was not the sound of lightning, but the sounds of a struggle coming from down a long corridor.

If the Gods’ wills were present, he prayed they were one to spare whatever fool had ventured down here with him.

He strained his ears to catch which trail the sounds of aggression echoed down. The noise of claws clicking on stone. Snarls and growls knocking down the stone tunnels.  
Gascoigne’s sense of smell did no good. The stench was thick, seeped into the labyrinth from years of confinement - beasts.

The room was full of the creatures, encroaching like the wolves they resembled, they closed in on an unlucky someone who happened to be their prey.

“Easy now, easy… You must listen to me. There is no need for harm here.”

Gascoigne knew that voice. Only a fool would put themselves in the path of hungry beasts.

Djura.

“I won’t harm you, I wish to spare you. Wait, wait--”

As a gangly creature rose a clawed hand up to strike, Gascoigne brought his axe down. The beasts body folded and snapped like dry kindling under the weight of the axe head, the blade cleaving the spine in two evenly.  
At the attack, the beasts whipped their heads to the offender. They shrieked at the hunter from slathering maws. How upsetting, that they must now fend off a hunter before their savory meal.

“Gascoigne--” the meal protested.

“AWAY!” Gascoigne roared, raising his axe. “HE IS MINE!”

The beasts considered, clicking their claws. Gascoigne’s hair nearly bristled, his sharp canines beared. This new predator was confusing, a hunter and a beast. It made them stop to weigh their odds.

One against many.  
They were many.

They were also hungry and a meal had so willingly wandered into the underground. Rats were fine. Human was better.

A creature lunged forth, sword nails extended forth to meet flesh. Gascoigne reeled the extended axe back and swung forward. Djura heard the heavy woosh of the weapon followed by a mangy body that flew past him, blood spewing in its wake.

The other beasts closed in, ready to tear at the axe wielding hunter, when Djura produced a small bomb from his side satchel. Inside a clear liquid sloshed. He pulled the pin, covering his mouth and nose under his shirt before throwing the concoction. It shattered into a grey cloud.  
  
The smell! Lords, the smell!

Gascoigne reeled, the air burning his nostrils and throat. A similar reaction affected the beasts themselves, and they shrank away into corners, covering their noses with gnarled hands as they gagged.

The church hunter blindly threw a hand about, attempting to clear away the thick smoke. He felt a hand grab his arm roughly. “Follow me.”

Djura dragged him to a new hall, slamming the gate to their escape route closed behind them. Above, lanterns smoked while beams of light pierced through cracks in the ceiling. Gascoigne leaned on a wall, coughing into his hand. The smell lingered still.

“You see,” Djura said, clapping his gloved hands together, “There is usually a nonviolent solution to these things. You choose to fail to recognize them, however--”

“And YOU choose to fail to recognize they’re beasts, Djura!” Gascoigne croaked, “Beasts that have starved for the gods know how long! Lost to time, lost to memory- they are not for you to save!”

“You deny these beasts were once people?” Djura straightened, offended.

“Not anymore!” Gascoigne paused and inhaled slowly again, trying to clear away the itch in his lungs. “Why are you here? You followed me?”

“Well.” Djura folded his arms. “They call me a fool and yet here you are in the nest of the beast plague. What was so important you would be down here? The very air of this place would make any infected sway to their beastly tendencies. You nearly roared at those lesser creatures when you said I was yours.”

Gascoigne bit the inside of his cheek. A fire had risen in his chest in that moment, seeing Djura being swarmed by sickly beasts. Something that wanted to burst forth and tear them away, let them know their place. It was possessive.

“Gascoigne?”

  
“Hmm?” The priest stood away from the wall.

“I asked what made you venture to this place?”

“It’s...not like I had much of a choice.” Gascoigne took the long staff of his halberd in both hands, and with a sharp metallic snap, he shortened its length. “It was an errand from the church.”

“More of a fool’s errand.” Djura narrowed his remaining eye. “You would risk becoming a labyrinth beast yourself down here, all for your precious errand?”

“If it means they lose suspicion of myself and my family then yes!” Gascoigne snapped back, ending in a low growl. He sighed. “If I can do what I can to not give them any leads to what I am, I’ll do it. You know it would not mean my persecution alone should they find out. “

“Ah, yes.” Djura rubbed the back on his neck at the tender subject. Despite Gascoigne’s established position in the church, it wouldn’t keep him from being split open under their surgeon’s blades. Neither would it keep his family from facing whatever purification the church could think up for their sins. “Well, then it seems of utmost importance for me to accompany you on your task.”

“You would?” Gascoigne’s jaw hung slack.

“The church needn’t know I was with you. I also keep you human for your errand. I see no downside.” Djura gave a jackal grin and patted the stake driver latched to his right arm.

Gascoigne let his tongue wander his gums in thought, a hand on his hip. Two would be better than one on his mission, and while he wasn’t planning to turn to a beast, he would rather it happen with the sympathizer at his side.

“Fine.”

“Mmm?” Djura blinked, his voice dripped with feinted ignorance. “What is fine?”

  
“Your being here. I could use your help.”

“I accept!” Djura took Gascoigne’s free hand and slapped it to his own for a firm shake. “Now!”

  
The Ashen Hunter moved past Gascoigne into the stone frame of another door. “If we continue forward, I believe there are four depths to this layer.” He looked over his shoulder. “Ah, apologies. Your errand, so your lead.”

Gascoigne strode by the smaller man in silence. Djura watched, unfazed, allowing the large priest to haul the door open with ease. He then waited for Father Gascoigne to take the first move before following him into the next layer of the dungeon of Loran.

Though as he walked on by the retired hunter, something wafted by his nose. It made his nostrils flare. A raw, sweet stench that scourched up his airways and ruminate in his brain. 


End file.
